


The Classified Case

by LadyYueh



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyYueh/pseuds/LadyYueh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, what exactly was Lestrade doing while Sherlock and John dealt with bankers, and mafia, and the circus, oh my?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Classified Case

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynnmonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnmonster/gifts).



> For the xover_exchange on LJ. Prompt: Fandoms: Angel-Buffy/Any Scenario: Give me post-NFA Xander crossed with any of the other fandoms and I will love you forever.

It didn’t hold true in every case, but for DI Lestrade it was a reality that he could only ever be _technically_ off duty.

Discounting the very high probability that he would be called in on another grisly murder, what left a bad taste in his mouth was that it was becoming more and more typical that he be called in not for his own sake, but in order to deal with Sherlock Bloody Holmes. He wasn’t the man’s nanny and he didn’t appreciate being called in to make the consulting detective play nice with the other boys and girls.

It was debasing enough having to plead with Sherlock to help with cases that weren’t “interesting” enough to keep the man’s attention, but having to do it on behalf of the rest of the force was ridiculous. If they wanted Sherlock’s help they could learn to jump through hoops as Lestrade had because he wasn’t going to be their go-between.

Though now Lestrade expected that some of the smarter ones would try their hand and see how much of an influence John Watson could have over Sherlock. Good luck to them, Lestrade thought with dark amusement, John Watson only looked like a pushover if you weren’t paying attention. The man chose to keep up with Sherlock Holmes, and only an idiot would come to the conclusion that such a person was perfectly reasonable and sane.

And speaking of sanity, Lestrade wished could go off on mental tangents that were totally unrelated to the inhabitants of 221b, and that he could put away the Detective Inspector for a few hours. Some days he’d be perfectly happy for just a couple of minutes. But such was the nature of the job and of Lestrade that he rarely could. It was one of the reasons that he took his vacations as far from London as possible. Well, when he could manage to schedule a vacation.

The part of Lestrade that he could rarely turn off, the one that looked at the streets and corners of London at night and thought of potential crimes first, was what really made him one of those cops that was always on the job even when they weren’t on the clock.

It was why, when he saw a young, stumbling drunk stagger into a alley being followed immediately and at a distance by a man with a long, _predatory_ stride he didn’t do what the larger percentage of the human population would. Instead of looking the other way and continuing on his way home in time to get there before the delivery boy he started to jog towards the drunk and his tagalong.

Lestrade’s job entailed seeing a lot of the worst of humanity and keeping the rotten bits as far from the rest as best he could. He’d had to learn to cope with seeing that kind of thing and not let it cripple him. A lot of coppers tried to ignore it or pretend it didn’t happen as best they could; some turned to booze and sex. Lestrade just did the best he could every time and let that be his comfort. If he could honestly tell himself that he’d given it his all then he couldn’t blame himself for not doing enough if it went bad. It worked well most times and he liked to think he was as well-adjusted as a man with his job could be.

Letting that drunk get mugged or killed and hearing about it later—or worse, getting called on the case, would be something Lestrade couldn’t live with. He knew this about himself. So, better he look like an idiot to a drunk and a stranger than have a dead man on his conscience.

Lestrade caught up and the sight that met him stopped him dead.

The drunken man was very obviously not drunk as he slammed a bleedin’ piece of wood into his stalker’s chest.

Lestrade could only stand a watch for a moment and ready himself for what he’d soon have to do; either try and see if the man could be saved or go after the lunatic who’d just stabbed him with a piece of wood.

It was further complicated by the fact that the victim seemed to explode into nothing between one blink of an eye and the next. Lestrade’s brain was telling him that he _did not see what he just thought he saw_. A voice that sounded far too much like Sherlock Pillock Holmes was telling him to stop being an idiot and **observe**.

Either way, the man—the one-eyed man, Lestrade mentally amended—was staring at him with surprise, which had to mean that _something_ had just happened and that Lestrade hadn’t gone completely round the bend.

“Don’t move,” Lestrade said, using his DI voice as he went for his warrant badge. “DI Lestrade. What the hell just happened here?”

Lestrade frowned as the man in front of him seemed to sway.

“Haaaappened?” the man slurred as a look of stupid confusion came over his face. “Nuthin’, nuthin’ happened, man. Jus’ jus’ hadda take a piss. Too much ya know? Man, was a’ thish pub, Austra, ausitra, thish Aussie could reeeaally **drink**.”

American, Lestrade noted. Tourist.

Lying through his teeth.

He’d dealt with enough drunks in his life to tell the difference, but this guy was good. If he hadn’t seen the clear eyed, sober expression on his face as he stabbed a man he’d have believed it.

As it was, he was still in the process of second guessing himself. There was no body. There wasn’t even any blood. What the hell was he supposed to do? Take the man in for questioning? For attacking a man in front of him that was no longer there? Without a body or a weapon or signs of the event ever happening?

Lestrade didn’t have to imagine what that’d do to his credibility.

But he couldn’t very well let this man go without answering for what he’s just seen him do either, could he?

Lestrade was cursing himself a thousand times a fool and getting ready to make a decision either way when the not-so-drunk pirate dropped the drunken act suddenly and threw himself at Lestrade.

Well, if I’m killed here that’ll definitely prove me right, Lestrade thought with dark humor. He wondered whether he’d get a hunk of wood to the chest too and whether it’d hurt and much as getting shot or stabbed.

It never came.

He hit the ground with a breath-stealing thud and his attacker rolled off of him quickly to get back on his feet.

There was a snarling man with a deformed face that had apparently been set to tackle Lestrade from behind.

So the pirate had saved him?

The man looked set to pounce and Lestrade was scrambling to his feet when he did, ready to—well, to do _something_ if either of the men went to attack him when the latest assailant recoiled as if he’d been hit and made a high-pitched sound that Lestrade had never heard another human make. It sent shivers up Lestrade’s spine and made his skin crawl. The man regained his composure and growled at them, snapping a mouth filled with sharp canines before _leaping_ and scrabbling up the wall of the building behind him.

Lestrade could only watch, agog, as he scaled four stories in seconds before disappearing out of sight once he hit the roof.

“That was not normal,” came the perfectly sober, American-accented opinion.

“What the bloody hell is going on here!” Lestrade demanded as he put some space between them.

“Man, I’m sorry. You really don’t want to know. Go home, sleep, go to work in the morning.” The American shrugged and simply turned to walk away without a care in the world.

He pulled out a fucking mobile and started to make a phone call.

Lestrade rushed forward and grabbed the man’s arm, ready when the man lashed out and struggled. He’d taken advantage of the man’s blind-spot, after all.

“I’m doing no such thing,” Lestrade said once he had the stranger’s attention. Lestrade let him grip fall away. “Now, you’re going to tell me what the hell just happened or I’m taking you in for questioning. Either way, I’m getting answers.”

He smiled as if there was really something funny about the situation. “You could, but who’d believe you? Think about it. How would you explain what you just saw? They’ll call you crazy, you’ll lose your job, and I’ll just go free.”

Lestrade couldn’t argue that. “Then I’ll follow you until you slip up and I can bring you in for something.”

That surprised the man. “Dude, you wouldn’t even believe me if I told you!”

“Try me.”

“Vampires.”

Lestrade stared and wondered whether it was too late to take his decision back. Some mindless telly and a curry sounded like paradise in comparison to the insanity of the last five minutes. Christ, had it only been five minutes?

“You don’t believe me.”

Lestrade restrained the urge to throw in a mocking ‘duh’.

“Knew you wouldn’t,” he added in a tone that implied it was perfectly reasonable. “But a guy just burst into dust in front of your eyes when I put a stake through his heart and another guy with a mouth full of fangs just scaled a building like a cockroach. What more proof do you need? It’s not too late to go for the ‘I had a momentary hallucination’ option, you know.”

Lestrade ignored the suggestion. “Can you? Get me more proof?”

“You’re insane and I don’t have time for this. That vamp was acting unvampy and that usually means an apocalypse-type thing. So, good luck. You’re welcome for saving you from becoming vamp-food. Try not to stay out late, Detective. Byebye!”

\----

Xander walked away.

The Inspector-man started to follow him. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Xander muttered to himself. He turned and shook a finger at the confused, angry, but stubborn looking man. “You are not a puppy. I’m not letting you follow me home.”

“You just threw the words vampire and apocalypse at me. You’re either a nutter, dangerous, or telling the truth. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“Great. I just got off a plane from Africa yesterday, man. I go out to see if I can find a place that sells Twinkies only to find that I’m still vamp-bait and I find the only cop in the world that won’t listen to that little voice in his head that tells him something’s impossible,” Xander ranted.

“I have that voice. Only I have another one telling me that, _once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth_.”

Xander noted that Lestrade’s accent had changed a little bit along with his body language. It was obvious he was mockingly quoting someone else. “Someone you know?” Xander asked.

“Does it matter? I’m here on another crazy stunt prompted by the voice in my head that decided to take after Sherlock Buggering Holmes. I need a drink.”

“Amen.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Xander.”

“I should really be calling this in.”

“You should really be heading home and forgetting this ever happened.”

“Not a chance.”

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you. No takesies-backsies.”

\----

After watching a pair of slayers clear out a vampire nest in Covent Garden of all places in order to get some information that led them to a the penthouse of a posh building in Canary Wharf where someone was actually using _magic_ to control the vampires in London as part of some sort of incomprehensible plan that needed a vampire army and _zombies_ to work, Lestrade was really starting to wish that he could take back all the decisions he’d made over the past forty-eight hours.

“I didn’t even call into work,” Lestrade made the realization out loud as he took the driver’s seat of the van after helping to salt and burn _zombie_ remains. He was still coated in things he’d rather not identify—they all were—and he was trying not to dwell on the smell of rotting death. He’d taken his time to puke before he’d got into the van—a habit from when he was just starting out in violent crimes—but it was better not to tempt fate and his stomach.

“G-Man took care of it,” Xander piped up. “Hey, watch it, ladies! No swords on the upholstery. Why aren’t those secured? One quick stop and someone loses a finger, or worse!”

The teenaged Liz and her friend Mari exchanged long-suffering glances completely with the requisite roll of the eyes as they scrambled about, putting their weapons into their proper places.

“What do you mean? How did you take care of it?” Lestrade asked with suspicion as turned the key in the ignition.

“Phone call. Made by Giles,” Xander said slowly. “Well, phone call from Giles to some bigwig in your government that’s in the know. It filtered down to your boss to tell him that you were temporarily unavailable to help because you were serving Queen and country.”

“Does he always talk like this?” Lestrade asked the girls, who’d been chosen because they were both Londoners.

They nodded. “I think it’s why he went to Africa, maybe he insulted less people when they couldn’t understand him,” Mari said.

Liz giggled. “Doubt it.”

“Hey!” Xander protested.

“So, you were right,” Lestrade said in a low tone as the girls started to natter on about clubbing and moan about schoolwork as if they hadn’t just saved London from the beginning stages of a vampire/zombie invasion.

“Right?” Xander repeated.

“No take-backs.”

Xander was quiet for a moment. “You could still forget about what happened. A lot of people do.”

“No, I really can’t,” Lestrade said as he looked back to the laughing warriors in the back seat and thought about all the other young girls he’d seen when Xander had taken him to Slayer Headquarters.

“Know how you feel, man, but it’s not for everyone. You don’t have fighting in the fight in order to help, you know. Think about it,” Xander said.

Lestrade fell silent, but he listened as Xander started a jovial conversation with the girls about vampire and zombie films that was so surreal he wanted to laugh at its absurdity.

\----

“Tough case?”

Lestrade was jolted out of his thoughts by John Watson’s curious question.

“Pardon?”

John smiled apologetically. “Sherlock asked after you in the Blind Banker case. Dimmock said you were busy and you look—” he trailed off with a hint of embarrassment.

“Terrible, I know,” Lestrade said. He still ached and the smell of zombie seemed like it was still stuck at the back of his throat no matter what he drank.

The office was buzzing with gossip about Sherlock and John’s latest case, which had involved smuggling ancient artifacts, a secret language, a circus and the Chinese mafia, apparently. Dimmock who’d had the _pleasure_ of dealing with Sherlock Prat Holmes was surly whenever someone mentioned the word ‘suicide’ within his hearing.

Lestrade was, understandably, a bit jumpy after everything that had happened to him within the past week. He was also trying to avoid Sherlock until he felt like the man couldn’t tell he’d been hunting vampires and other myths just by looking at him.

“So, did your case go well?” John asked for a third time.

Lestrade smiled and John thought privately that it was a very enigmatic sort of smile. “It went just fine.”

 **-END-**


End file.
